


Pas De Deux

by andrastesgrace (RoxieFlash), gallifreyslostson



Series: Family Assembled [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxieFlash/pseuds/andrastesgrace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyslostson/pseuds/gallifreyslostson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets a promotion, of sorts, and an assignment to Budapest.  What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas De Deux

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned before, we played if fast and loose with these characters, using elements of both MCU and comic canon, both with some alterations.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Do I _look_ like I'm kidding, Agent Barton?"

Fury never looked like he was kidding. Probably the eye patch. Clint had speculated before on whether he actually actually had anything wrong with his eye, or if it was just an intimidation thing. For the moment, Clint just clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"I'm not SO material," he said. "I work alone. Besides, I thought Romanoff had an SO."

"She did," Fury replied, opening the file in front of him. "Three of them. All the claim she's dangerously impulsive, lacks communication skills, and unreliable in the field. All things said about you when agents have had the misfortune of working with you."

"So you're assigning her to me hoping we just kill each other?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow. "Haven't you ever heard of a pink slip?"

"They also all question her loyalty to SHIELD," Fury went on, and Clint narrowed his eyes. "They claim she's too unstable to be trusted in the field."

"Can't imagine why she had a hard time working with them," Clint said. "After all, nothing binds people like mutual disdain."

"She was a Russian spy," Fury reminded him with a shrug, and Clint rolled his eyes. "She was raised by the enemy, molded to infiltrate and destroy us--"

"Bullshit!" Clint burst out. "She turned her back that before I ever laid eyes on her, she defected, she had the chance to leave--"

"The chance you gave her," Fury pointed out.

"She made a choice," Clint insisted. "But that's not going to mean shit if no one will give her a chance."

"Which is why I'm giving her one last shot," Fury replied. "With apparently the only person in this organization that thinks she's worth one. You brought her here, Barton, you clean up the mess."

Clint's jaw tightened as he stared the director down. He didn't know Natalia--no, Natasha, he reminded himself--had burned through three SO's already. She was still on her first the last time he'd talked to her, although he wasn't really surprised that one hadn't worked out. Kinkaid wasn't a bad agent, but she had a certain obsession with things like "doing it by the book" and "sticking to action plans", which usually didn't work outside of training fields, and a sense of allowed and disallowed with no wiggle room. Also, he'd found, absolutely no sense of humor. He'd worked with her once, and it hadn't gone well.

Turning off his hearing aids while she bitched about him in the debriefing probably hadn't helped.

Needless to say, he'd predicted _that_ particular arrangement crashing and burning from the start. He'd told Nat he was making popcorn, and she'd smirked and said she'd try to make it as entertaining as possible.

Which, really, was the whole reason he hadn't talked to her in months. It wasn't that he'd really been avoiding her, exactly, just not...seeking her out. And always managed to find something to do far away if he _did_ find himself in her vicinity. All because of moments like that, and the one sparring session where she'd pinned him and given him material for a lifetime of wet dreams.

Just his luck that the little weirdo would get _more_ interesting when she stopped trying to kill him. He couldn't afford to be interested in anyone, much less an ex-soviet with impulse control issues. So he'd removed himself from the issue...so much for that.

This was going to be a disaster, and likely the first in a streak of just...awful choices that he always made when he was trying to Do the Right Thing.

"Fine," he ground out after a long moment. "But only until I say she doesn't need one anymore. No more juggling her around."

"That's not your call," Fury said.

"Neither was keeping her alive," Clint said, standing up. "Is that it?"

"Not quite," the director said, picking up another file and handing it over.

"Seriously?" Clint demanded. "You tell me I'm suddenly an SO, and then give us a mission?"

"That's your job, Agent Barton. You leave tomorrow. Enjoy Budapest."

oOoOo

_"So how do comms work with your hearing?"_

"Focus, Agent Romanoff."

_"You know, Barton, you used to be fun."_

"And you used to want me dead."

_"You shot me first. Besides, that's water under the bridge."_

"Glad to hear it. Now plant the bugs and stop making yourself look like a lunatic talking to yourself. You're going to blow our cover."

_"Fine. Killjoy."_

Clint shook his head. It wasn't like he really thought she'd risk being on the comms when someone could see, but this mark was no joke. Shady businessman by day, ruthless arms dealer by night. Apparently not everyone could lead a dual life as a vigilante. Romanoff was working as his PA, since apparently a straightforward tag and bag was wasn't thorough enough; SHIELD also wanted his contacts, who was buying and who was selling. Which meant surveillance. Which Clint hated, for a number reasons. His hearing could be a hindrance sometimes; there were ways around that, from being able to read lips to software that converted speech to text for him, but it always left him paranoid. One agent he'd been partnered with had gone so far as to call him useless because he'd never be able to catch on to plans before it was too late. He'd proved that allegation false a few times already, but the awareness that he could easily miss something left him anxious.

The other problem was Romanoff.  They’d already spent one day holed up together in the penthouse across the boulevard from the mark’s, and it made him itchy.  He didn’t like working with partners, and not only because some of them were morons.  Spend time with people, any people, for a given amount of time, and you were just asking for Stockholm Syndrome to do you in.  He’d already learned a lot of hard lessons about how investments in people never pay off, and he had no desire to fuck himself over getting attached to someone like Natasha, who traded off personalities like some people changed their socks.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the bugs in the office come on-line.  He’d done the penthouse earlier, and now it was just a matter of waiting to see if Romanoff came up with anything before being done for the day.  In the meantime, he got to listen to the greasy scuzzball flirt his way into an early grave.

“ _You know, I think I might know of a better position for such a...delightful young woman.”_

“Careful,” Clint said casually, leaning back in the chair at the desk and twirling an arrow around in his fingers.  “Remember we’re not supposed to kill him.”

“ _Yet_ ,” she replied.

“ _What was that, my dear?”_

 _“I said ‘net’,”_ she lied smoothly, and Clint snorted.  “ _I just...couldn’t think of a better position than working with someone as influential as you.  If that will be all, sir?”_

 _“Of course, my dear.”_   The door in the office closed, and then his oily voice continued.  “ _Although there’s still a few positions I’d like to get you in before long.”_

Maybe _not_ let Nat review this particular recording.

oOoOo

“Did you know, Agent Barton, that one in four women has admitted to being harassed at work?” Romanoff asked without preamble as she entered the penthouse, and Clint swiveled in his chair to see her carrying a box of chinese takeout.  “And four in ten of those women didn’t report it, because they didn’t think it would do any good.”

“Are you telling me this because you want to report me for harassment?” he asked, standing and walking over to the counter to examine the white cartons.

“No, but I do think I can put a dent in that statistic by shoving a pen in Handsy McGreasyPaw’s thigh.”

“I’m not sure one in four women work for him,” Clint pointed out, hopping onto the counter and pulling a pair of chopsticks from their wrapper with his teeth before opening a carton of beef and broccoli and digging in.

Nat hopped up on the other side of the box, munching on orange chicken and tilting her head as she considered this.  After a moment, she shrugged, nabbing another piece of chicken with her chopsticks.  “Worth it.”

Clint shook his head.  “At least wait until after we get the intel.”

“Killjoy.”

“You said that before.”

“And yet, still true.”  He shook his head again, and they ate in silence for a minute before he felt her eyes on him and looked up expectantly.  “So what’s the story with the robo-ears?”

“They’re hearing aids,” he told her slowly, and she rolled her eyes at the obvious.  “They help me hear.”

“Did you always need them?”

“I’m not really sure I want them _now_.”  He glanced at the window, and thanked any powers the might exist for the light that came on across the boulevard.  “Go listen, let me know if anything good happens.”

“Why do I have to do it?” she asked grumpily, even as she slid off the counter.

“Because I’ve been at it all day,” he replied.  “Plus, I’m your SO, so...because I said so.”

She glanced back at him with narrowed eyes, then muttered in Russian as she made her way to the desk and slouched into it.  She gave him a pointed look as she pulled the headphones on with exaggerated care, and he rolled his eyes as she swiveled back to the monitor.

Pain in his ass.

oOoOo

That night, she woke up screaming.

Clint never took his hearing aids out in the field, so he was up and out of bed before the echoes were gone and the second scream started.

"Romanoff!" he shouted, grabbing his bow as he sprinted out the door and down the hall.  He froze when he burst into her room, arrow notched, and stared at the tiny ball of girl on the bed, her hands clutching her head. A quick glance around confirmed a lack of outside threat, and he hesitated a second before swearing quietly and moving further into the room.  The bow slackened, and he set it down beside the arrow before squatting next to the bed. She was whimpering in Russian now, rocking back and forth a little. He reached a hand forward, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"Natasha," he said quietly. "Nat. Hey, you okay?"

He wasn't prepared for the speed at which she moved, surging upwards as she grabbed his wrist. In seconds, he was pinned to the floor beneath her with his arm over his head and a knife at his throat. His free hand flew up and grabbed her wrist, applying firm pressure to keep his throat from getting slit while trying not to actually hurt her.

"Romanoff," he growled. "Stand down."

She stares down at him for a second, blue eyes burning into his, then she blinked.

"Barton. Shit."

She scrambled off him, back onto the bed, and he sat up slowly, reaching one hand behind him as he bent the opposite knee. He probed his neck gingerly, but didn't seem any worse for wear as he studied her.

"You always sleep with a knife ready?"

"Do you not?" she asked, giving him a blank look.  Then she glanced down at the bow and arrow, which had slid a few feet away, and raised her gaze back to his pointedly.

“It’s not a knife,” he reminded her.  “And also wasn’t aimed at you.”

“Yeah.”  She looked down again, running a finger over the flat of the knife.  “Guess that’s it for me then.”

“What’d you mean?”

Her eyes went up to the ceiling as she smiled without any humor.  “Not hard to figure out how this is gonna go.  Three SO’s already think I’m crazy, unstable, and probably a spy.  Now I tried to kill one.”  Her gaze fell to his again, and she shrugged a little.  “Time’s up.”

Clint dropped his hand from his neck, resting his arm on his upraised knee, and studied her a minute before he sighed and looked away.  “A few years back, I had a run in with this guy...well, guys, who wanted a property I had...acquired.  It got bad.  A few times.  And I’m pretty sure the next guy to call me ‘bro’ is going to get an arrow in the neck.

"Anyway, this one guy in particular was...the stuff of nightmares.  Impossible to track, impossible to predict, the perfect villain combination of smart and crazy, completely without conscience, nothing to lose and lots to gain.  A lot of people got dead by his hands.”

“Not you,” Nat’s voice cut in, and he glanced up at her briefly, then swallowed hard.

“No.  Not me.  But I did get my head stabbed in by a couple of my own arrows.  Chance of a lifetime to get some robo-ears,” he added, giving her a tight smile as he raised his eyes again.  “My brother didn’t do so well.”

_-just a little earlier and it would have been fine the knife wouldn’t have been there if he’d been just a minute quicker and if Barney had never shown up and if the tracksuit draculas and that damn greasepaint asshole and the other people he’d pissed off had set their sights on some other block with another building where someone else wouldn’t have fought or at least would have had the consideration to die more quietly and more alone-_

“Why are you telling me this?”

Clint’s eyes focused again, and he cleared his throat awkwardly as he got to his feet.

“Everyone’s got nightmares,” he said, shuffling a few steps to retrieve his bow and arrow.  “And they all suck.  But no one has the right to define you by them.  Just do me a favor.”  He looked over at her, and she arched an eyebrow.  “Stick to the knife.  Bullets are more tricky to outsmart, and I don’t really feel like being taken out by my partner.  At least not before the mission is over.”

“Deal.”

oOoOo

There was a series of bad choices.  If he sat down, he could probably list them out.  He’d probably end up with a muscle cramp and lose a few hours he’d never get back, but he could do it.

“He’s married, you know,” Nat said, cutting into the mental tally of poor decisions, and he gave her a confused look.  She tipped the neck of the beer bottle in her hand toward the window facing the mark’s penthouse.  “Mister Greasy.”

“I know.  We tried that, remember?  She doesn’t know anything, and doesn’t want to.  Just wants the tanning beds hot and the masseuses hotter, with plenty of green to pay for it all.”

“Thank you for the rundown of recent events,” she snorted.  “I meant all the girls and everything.  Even for an arms dealer, you’d think there’d be a limit to sleaze.”

“You’d think,” he murmured, bringing his own beer up to his lips.

"You ever been married, Barton?"

     - _it was stupid, bringing the girl back to his place, maybe that was the point, maybe he wanted to get caught, maybe he wanted Bobbi to walk in and walk out again and for everything to come crashing down around his useless ears_

_"Who's that?"_

_"My fiance."_

_"You're getting MARRIED?"_

_"All signs point to no."_

"No. Never been married."  He took another necessary pull from his bottle, then gave her a sideways glance.  “What about you?”

“Not the marrying type,” Nat said, turning back to the screens and window.

“You know, Romanoff, for someone with such a murky past, you’re awfully curious about mine,” he commented.

“Better than soaps.”

Clint tilted his head, thinking back on adventures and misadventures and women and carnies…all those poor decisions that would put _General Hospital_ to shame.

“Shit.”

"Besides, you know _I_ haven't been married, just like you know everything _else_ there is to know about me from the file you read when you were supposed to kill me."

"Aw, Nat."  He ran a hand over his face wearily.  "Alright, kid, one minute."

"Did you ever come close to getting married?"

"Yes."

"Did you mess it up or did she?

"I did."

"Regret it?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you use sign language or read lips?"

"Both."

"Was is hard learning sign language as an adult?"

"I learned when I was a kid."

"Why?"

"Lost part of my hearing.  Got some of it back.  Then lost most of the rest."

"How?"

"Pass.  Everyone has their own nightmares."

"Where'd you grow up?"

"Everywhere."

"Where'd you learn to use a bow?"

"Carnies."

"Why didn't you just let the guys who wanted your property have it?"

"Misguided need to do the right thing."

"Can you teach me sign language?"

"What?  _Why_?"

"Being able to communicate non-verbally could be really helpful."  Clint stared at her a second, and she shrugged.  "Might as well use the advantage you've got."

"I'll think about it," he said finally, draining his bottle and glancing at his watch.  "Minute's up.  I'm going to bed."

“You really need to work on your communication skills, Barton,” she said as he stood and stretched.

“I changed my mind, I will teach you sign language.”

“I already know that one.”

oOoOo

One day, the list of poor decisions had to give way to something decent.  Maybe.

In the meantime, there were tuxes.

“Explain to me again why you told them I’m gay?” he asked, frowning at his reflection as he tried to remember how to fix a bowtie and failed.  _Aw, tie, no..._

“It was the only way I could get them to let you come,” she called from the other room.  “It was either that or my brother.”

“Gross.  Why do you even need me there?  I thought you had all this handled, with McGreasy eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“Liability insurance.  Because if you’re not there, I’m liable to castrate him.”

“Charming.  No offense, honest, and zero judgement, but I thought using sex to get information was kind of your thing?”

“Sex _appeal_ , jerk.  I don’t want that STD grab bag anywhere near the goods, thanks, with or without weapons contacts.”

“Right.”

He gave up on the tie after the fifth attempt, making an irritated sound as he stepped out of his room.  He froze when Nat left her room at the same time, his eyes moving over the low cut green dress warily.

“I’m supposed to pretend to be gay while you’re wearing that?”

“Problem?” she asked, smirking and arching an eyebrow at him.

“I’m going to deserve an Oscar for this.”

“I thought that’s what field training was for,” she said, stepping closer to fix his tie.

“I don’t remember that exercise,” he replied, trying to figure out how to breathe without her scent getting in the way. 

 _Don’t sleep with the subordinate agent_ , he told himself sternly.  _That will not end well for either of you_.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed to get invited to this shindig without being McGreasy’s arm candy.  Although, as he watched the mark guide her around the room to schmooze various other too-rich lowlifes, he realized it didn’t matter who she’d come with.  There really was a reason for him being here, though; she could distract the host and guests while he searched the place for any evidence...something he was having a really hard time doing, because it would require tearing his eyes off of her.

 _Stockholm Syndrome_ , he told himself finally, shaking his head and moving down a deserted hall.  He hadn’t wanted to get paired up with her in the first place, or anyone, for that matter.  Days of being cooped up together were just taking their toll, making him more aware than he’d otherwise be of the shape of her legs in shorts and the way she sang off-key in the shower.

Needless to say, he was grateful when he came across a hidden safe to distract him for a while, but still ended up disappointed by it’s lack of incriminating contents other an a sizeable stack of cash.  Seriously, who did that anymore?  Anyone honestly storing up a wad of bills in the age of digital currency was just asking to get robbed.  But not by him, unfortunately.

“Bye money,” he whispered regretfully as he closed the safe, fighting the reflex to pocket a chunk of it.

The rest of his search yielded nothing, and he made his way back to the party in a piss-poor mood because of it.  He wanted this mission done.  He wanted to go home to pizza and beer and his dog and a blessed lack of coworkers that listed _sex appeal_ as their superpower.

“Did you find anything?” she asked when he cut into her dance and pulled her into his arms.

“Not anything helpful,” he muttered, trying not to think about how close she was or how good she felt or her scent.  It was making him a little surly.  “Just once, I’d like a bad guy who keeps a rolodex of shady contacts in plain view, maybe an inventory list of questionable merchandise.”

“It’s thoughtless of them, really,” she said, shaking her head, then smiled a little when he cocked an eyebrow.  “I’ve gone bust too.  No business on the boss man’s birthday, apparently.”

“It’s his birthday?” Clint asked, frowning.

She stared at him a second.  “What did you think the party was for?”

“It’s Tuesday?” he hazarded, then shrugged.  “How should I know?  Rich people have their own rules about stuff like that, never could get the hang of it.  My birthday definitely never looked like _this_.”

“Me neither,” she said, glancing around, then looked back at him with a sly grin.  “But I know what I’m doing for you next year.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Well, you did try to kill me,” she reminded him, and he rolled his eyes.

“Never going to let that go, are you?  Besides, I changed my mind, remember?”

“Yeah.”  Her expression suddenly got serious, and he stiffened warily.  “Did I ever say thank you for that?  And the SO thing.”

“Fury made me take you on,” he told her.  “And it’s not going to be a long term gig.  So really, no thanks necessary.”

“Right,” she said, her face becoming wooden as the song ended and she stepped out of his embrace.  “Well, if we can’t get anything out of this, we can probably just head out.”

“Nat--”

“Coming?”

Way to go, Hawkeye.  Real smooth.

Still, if she was ignoring him, maybe he would be less distracted by the way her hair fell over her eyes or the sound of her laugh.  Maybe.

***

Hours later, Clint was still lying awake, his mind stuck in an endless loop of where the night had gone wrong.  The idiotic statement, the silent ride back to the safe house, the stammered attempt at an apology, the near brush off.

_We all have our orders, Barton._

It should be fine.  It should be better this way, more professional and less personal.  As far as he was concerned, if she kept the cool head and decent observational skills, he could go back and tell Fury she didn't need an SO anymore and be done with the whole thing.  It should be easy.

But all the _should be’s_ in the world didn't stop him from feeling like shit.

He went through a dozen scenarios with better responses, ones that didn't treat her like a chore or burden...then shifted uncomfortably in his bed when most of them inexplicably ended with him kissing her or her kissing him and devolved from there.

_Bad idea, Barton.  That has never ended well for you.  Not with Bobbi or Jess or anyone else.  You've already screwed up enough people for one lifetime._

When the mental images stubbornly refused to listen to this internal lecture, he sat up with a frustrated growl.  Clearly, sleep wasn't going to come easily tonight.  Might as well make himself useful, go through the shots Nat had taken of the guests while he’d been snooping, run them through the SHIELD database.  Even if there was no business on McGreasy’s birthday, there might be some noteworthy business associates in town for it.

All productive thoughts he’d managed to assemble fled, however, when he opened his door to find Nat leaving her own room.  She froze, watching him warily.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoed.  “I was going to go through the photos, run them through the database.”

“You couldn't sleep either?”

She shrugged noncommittally.  “I figure that anything I do now will get you off the hook that much sooner.”

“Nat--”

“It's fine, Barton,” she interrupted, waving a hand.  “I get it, you didn't ask for this, you work alone.  We can get through this, you can tell Fury I’ve learned to play well with others, we can both move on.  You don't owe me any favors, there's enough red in my ledger with you already because of the whole not killing me thing.  We've just got to get what we came for and then we can go our separate ways.”

“Yeah,” he said, even while a voice in his head screamed NO.  “I work better alone.”

“Me too,” she agreed.  She nodded after a second, crossing her arms and making toward the end of the hall, at which point, Clint lost the plot a bit.

It wasn’t any conscious thought, no decisive action on his part, but suddenly he had a hand on her waist and another buried in her hair, and he was kissing her like he’d been deprived of breath for almost thirty years.  Then, to make matters worse, she uncrossed her arms and lifted her hands lace her fingers together behind his neck and press herself closer to him, giving as good as she got as he angled his head for a deeper kiss, sliding his tongue along hers.

The only thought that wasn’t completely annihilated by the feel of her mouth beneath his was that it wasn’t enough, he needed more of her, as soon as possible.  His lips didn’t leave hers as he bent his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist, and she took the hint almost before he’d given it, hopping up to wrap her legs around his hips.  He carried her back into her room, then dropped her on the bed and kneeled between her legs, reaching back to tug his shirt over his head before leaning down to trace the column of her throat with his lips.  She arched back to give him room, one hand in his hair.

“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” she gasped as she hooked one leg around his thigh, dragging his hips closer to hers.

“Probably,” he agreed against her skin, even while his hands slipped under her shirt to dance over her ribs.  The discovery of a complete lack of a bra made him growl and push her shirt up as he abandoned her neck in favor of pulling one breast into his mouth.  She let out a sharp cry as his teeth scraped over her nipple, and her hips jumped against his.  He groaned as he pushed back, the friction against his cock making him shiver while at the same time not being nearly enough.  One of his hands trailed down between her legs as his mouth moved to her other breast, and he pressed against her through the thin cotton shorts she’d worn to bed, an impatient sound escaping his throat at the feel of how wet she was even through the fabric.

Clint pushed himself up on his knees and reached for her waistband, hooking his fingers around it and raising an eyebrow when she lifted her hips obligingly.  Her legs went in the air as he slid the shorts over them and off her, and he brought her ankles down to rest on his shoulders, turning his his head to brush his lips over the inside of one of them.  He worked his way down her leg, leaving her draped over his shoulders as he lowered himself to the mattress and skimmed his hands over her skin.  He nipped at the ridge of each hip before turning his focus between her legs, running his tongue through her slick folds, pulling a gasp from her as her hips jumped.

Nat moaned when his tongue circled her clit, and he felt one of her hands on his head, tangling her fingers in his hair.  He shifted his weight to one elbow, and she groaned out his name as he pushed two fingers inside her, thrusting slowly.  A shudder ran through her as he curled his fingers a little inside her, and her hand tightened in his hair, and a growl left his throat.  Her hips jumped again at the vibration against her skin, and her became ragged.  He redoubled his efforts, pushing a third finger into her and applying steady, quick pressure to her clit, clamping down on her suddenly rolling hips with his free hand.

“ _Fuck_ , Barton!”

He groaned again as he felt her break, clenching around him rhythmically as waves shuddered through her.  He slowed down, bringing her down, until she gasped and slapped him away.  He chuckled, brushing his lips over the inside of her thigh before pushing himself up on his knees and dragging an arm over his mouth.  He looked down at her, flushed and still breathing hard and trembling, feeling smug...and also turned on beyond belief.

He scrambled off the bed, pulling his boxers off in record time before settling back between her legs and kissing her.  She looped an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and he shuddered as his cock slid between her folds.  He moved a hand down to her hip, ready to tilt her up and press into her, when her leg wrapped around his and she arched up, throwing him off balance.  She shifted her weight, sending him tumbling onto his back, then swung her leg over him to straddle his hips.  She crossed her arms over herself and pulled off her shirt, tossing it aside before settling her hands on his chest. 

He cleared his throat, his hands on hers.  “I uh...I don’t have any--”

“You clean?” she asked, matter-of-fact, and he blinked and nodded automatically.  “Good.  Can’t have kids.  Another gift from the Red Room.”

“Wha--”  She interrupted him by leaning down and kissing him hard, thoroughly distracting him, then straightened up and took him in hand, giving his cock a couple of short pumps that had him groaning and arching his back.  Then she was sinking down onto him, and then she was moving, and jesus, it felt amazing.  She started to move and his hands ran over her thighs to grab her hips as his pelvis moved to meet her thrusts--

\--and it still wasn’t enough.

His abs clenched and he brought himself up to her, his hands dancing over her back and ass as she moaned and continued move against him, on him, around him.  Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck as he kissed his way over her breasts and collarbone, intent on tasting every inch of flesh he could reach.  One arm finally settled on her waist, pulling her chest to his, while his other hand tangled in her hair as he kissed her, tongue sliding along hers in time with the thrusts of her hips.

He felt it start in his lower belly, the pressure and tingling and building need before the crash.  He tugged on her hair, pulling her lips from his and baring her neck to him.

“ _Tasha_ ,” he murmured against her skin, instantly liking the name.  It was something only her, the her she wanted to be, the her she was trying to be, more removed from who she’d been than Nat.  It was a dangerous thought to have mid-sex, spoke of a lot of other poor decisions surrounding the woman in his arms, but he was blessedly distracted when she twisted her hips in a way that should be illegal.  “Come for me again, come on--fuck, jesus, Tasha--”

She started to tremble around him again, her hips picking up speed, and any rational thought flew from his mind as the feel of her blotted out everything else.  Her hand held his head against her neck, while the nails of her free hand dug into his shoulder, and he groaned as he bit down on her neck.  She came with a shout as he ran his tongue over the spot, sucking and soothing as he guided her through another couple of sharp thrusts onto his cock before he came hard inside her, shuddering and shaking and clinging to her.

Clint felt her lips on his forehead after a moment, just before she tumbled to the side.  He fell backwards onto the pillows, watch as she stood and left the room, pausing to pick up the shirt she’d tossed aside.  He waited a beat, then rolled off the bed and tugged on his boxers, deliberating his next move.  He should probably just go, this was a mistake, he absolutely shouldn’t have done that, he was her SO for christ’s sake, what were you thinking Barton, get the hell out before she comes back, be the asshole you know you are--

“Huh.  Kinda thought I’d see a Barton shaped hole in the door by now.”

He looked up to see her leaning on the door jam with her arms crossed and her head tilted curiously, and narrowed his eyes a little.  The very last thing he should do is actually spend the night with her, everything about this situation was spinning out of control, but he still found himself stepping forward to circle her wrist with one hand, pulling her arms apart and tugging her toward the bed.

Neither of them could sleep apart.  Maybe they could sleep together.  And maybe it wouldn’t suck.

Just another slew of poor decisions to add to the list.  Later.

***

Clint had learned at an early age that he was particularly good at fucking everything up.  His dad had made it obvious to him when he hit him, his mom’s tears had been loud and clear, and Barney’s sighs of exasperation when he just couldn’t stay down even when he was still too little to fight.  It had only gotten worse from there.  It wasn’t really bitterness, just the knowledge that when it came down to it, his primary talent was being a human car wreck.

Which is why he felt slightly gratified when a situation went to hell without his help at all.

“Explain to me again why you felt the need to blow our cover when McGreasy was meeting with seven scary people with firepower to take out a small country,” he shouted at Nat as he ducked behind the car that had been blown onto it’s side.

“Fury wanted contacts,” Nat said shortly, popping up over the top of their makeshift cover to squeeze off a few shots from the pistol she held in each hand.  “He’s got contacts.”

Clint shook his head, standing next to her and loosing a couple of explosive arrows in the direction of the guys with the rocket launcher that could send them to Pluto.  He glanced around, catching sight of snipers on a couple of rooftops and more foot soldiers coming.  This...looked bad.

“We’ve got to go,” he told her.  “Now.”

“We’ve got to--”

“They’re going underground, but we know who they are, they can send tac teams later to flush them out,” he interrupted.  “But the information hand off is going to be a lot harder if we’re dead.”

“But if we can get to them now we won’t have to flush them out later,” Nat pointed out as he took out another foot soldier out with an arrow.

“Again, hard to do if we’re dead,” he ground out through clenched teeth.  “We need to--”

He could have kept arguing.  She probably would have held her ground until he bodily picked her up and carried her from the firefight.  Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.  Unfortunately, it was because he saw the grenade fall seconds before it went off, leaving him only time to throw Nat a few feet away before his whole world was pain, then blackness.

***

When he came to, he could hear Nat talking, but it was distant, warbly.  There was a buzzing feeling like bees in his head, a sensation he’d realized a few years back would be ringing tinnitus if his ears weren’t so busted up.  And pain.  Lots of it.

He looked down and saw a bloody mess of makeshift bandages on his side, and his arms were covered in soot and bruises.  His breathing was shallow and he felt cold and shaky--that’d be the shock--but every breath made what was sure to be at least three cracked ribs protest.  Blurry vision and--yup, there was the vomiting and nausea that went so well with a concussion.

He’d had worse.  That thought would probably be more comforting once he was pumped full of enough painkillers to make God a little loopy.

“Clint!”

He spit out the last of the bile in his mouth and struggled up into a sitting position against the wall, aided in part by Nat as she knelt next to him.  He tried to talk, but only ended up coughing, then groaning at the stabbing pain from his ribs.

“Don’t talk,” she warned him, then rolled her eyes at the impatient look he shot her.  “Glad you’re not dead.  You had me worried for a minute.  That was stupid, you know that?”

He’d probably be wishing he was dead when the bone deep, all over muscle ache kicked in, but for now he only arched an eyebrow at her.  She still sounded off, far away, distorted, and he tilted his head a little with a wince.

“Your hearing aids probably got damaged,” she said, apparently understanding the mannerism and moving to look at the side of his head.  She moved in front of him again before continuing.  “Yeah, they’re not looking great.  Can you hear at all?”  He lifted a hand, his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, and she nodded.  “Better than nothing.”

He nodded, and immediately regretted the movement when he felt woozy again.  His head suddenly felt heavy, and his chin dropped to his chest.  Maybe he’d just...sleep it off...sleep sounded good, less painful...yeah…

“HEY!”  His head snapped up again at the shout, and he let out a yelp when the back of his head hit the wall behind him.  “Sorry,” Nat said, her hands framing his face as her eyes flickered, moving quickly between both of his.  “But you can’t fall asleep, okay?  You can’t.  You might not wake up.  I called an extraction, they should be here any minute, but if you go out again--BARTON!”

He hadn’t even realized he was drifting again until she shouted his name and the pain came back in full force.  He put a hand to the wound on his side, pressing down a little and sucking in a breath.  At least it might keep him conscious.

Nat was biting her lip and watching him, her hands still on his face, when he looked at her again.  His eyes moved from her face down her body, and he could at least feel good about the fact that she seemed a little beat up, but mostly surface injuries.  She was probably right, it was probably stupid, but at least she was okay.

He blinked slowly, raising her eyes back up to hers, and she finally seemed to realize she was still touching him.  She backed off, but stayed close, shifting around to sit next to him against the wall.

“You [fuzz], not ever[fuzz] at the Red Ro[fuzz] was bad,” she said conversationally.  He turned his head toward her as his hearing aids cut out, focusing on her mouth to try to keep the thread of what she was saying.  “When I was [younger, probably?] it wasn’t always awful.  They taught us ballet.  It’s a good [still, skill, probably skill], coordination and balance and core strength.  And it was beautiful.”  Her lips curved up in a small smile, but a glance up showed her eyes looking a little sad and far away.  “It’s stupid, because I knew what I was, what I was meant to be, but I loved ballet.  I [...] this weird obsession with the Nutcracker.  And you know, maybe it says something about kids or me or both, but I couldn’t help imagining one day being a ballerina on a stage, playing Clara and dancing with my own Nutcracker Prince.”

Thing about focusing on her lips while she talked was that his whole focus was...on her lips.  And how soft they looked and the way it reminded him of how soft they’d _felt_.  They hadn’t talked about that night in the two days since it happened, and it hadn’t happened again.  But now she was here when he was hurt and trying to keep him awake by telling him a story that made him think of her as a little girl with a shred of innocence left, the little girl that had been beaten and brainwashed out of her over the years, and god help him, he wanted to kiss her, and hold her, and tell her she could still be a fucking ballerina if she wanted to, to hell with SHIELD.

Stockholm syndrome, final stages.

“Please stop talking,” he growled, turning his head away from her.

“You don’t li[fuzz] stories?”

“No.”

***

She didn’t visit.  He didn’t really expect her to, and knew it was probably better that she hadn’t, but it didn’t change the fact that the couple of people that had shown up--Bobbi, Fury, Simone--made him feel a little disappointed by how _not Nat_ they were.

He requested that she be given full status as a field agent.  She’d been able to keep to the script (mostly) and keep them from undue harm (for the most part), and good initiative when it counted.  She’d be fine, and, more importantly, out of his hair.

But she’d already been facing him when he’d looked at her, she was enunciating to make her words clearer to him.  Only Bobbi did that, usually when she was yelling at him for something he deserved to be yelled at about.

She never acted like he was useless or busted, the whole time they were out in the field.  Maybe because she was too.  Maybe just because she was Nat.

Still, not his problem now.  Now his only problem was finishing his beer and his pizza on his worn couch, passing a slice to Lucky whenever he got particularly pitiful, and yelling at the ref on TV whenever he made a call against the Knicks.  He still had a bottle of painkillers to chew through, and a couple of weeks off to let the stitches and splint on his knee do their work.

He made it two hours.

***

“What the hell are you doing here, Barton?”

Clint coughed awkwardly, looking down at his feet as scuffed a shoe on the dingy carpet outside Nat’s apartment.  “Uh, well.  I wanted to say congratulations on the full field agent promotion.  You deserve it.  And...you know...thanks.  For saving my life.”

He looked up to see her eyeing him, confused and a little wary.  “I owed you.  It was my fault you got hurt.”

He shrugged, not willing to commit to an answer.  “Not like you’re the first person to blow a cover because you’re bored.  I’m pretty sure I actually hold the record for that.  Anyway, I got you this.”

She took the package carefully, examining the shoddy newspaper wrap job suspiciously.  “What is it?”

“A present.”

“What’s _in_ it?”

“I can’t...you have to...jesus, it’s not a _bomb_ , Nat, just open it!”

She glared at him, wrinkling her nose, then finally carefully peeled back the paper while he buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  She shot him another wary look when it revealed a nondescript brown box, but he just rolled his eyes and nodded at it.  When she finally lifted the lid, she froze, staring at the contents.  She dropped the lid on the floor to trail her fingers gently over the nutcracker before lifting it out carefully to look at it more closely.  After a moment, she looked past it to Clint.

“I thought you didn’t like my stories.”

“Near-death experiences make me cranky,” he said with another shrug, looking down again.  “Anyway, I--”

Words became impossible when her mouth suddenly covered his.  He lifted one hand, cradling the back of her head, and the other found her waist when her arm slid around his neck, the nutcracker in her hand bumping against his shoulder.  She dropped the box the figurine had been in, the paper cushioning likely scattering and making an impossible mess, but he didn’t care much when her hand fisted in his shirt and pulled him into her apartment.  He kicked the door closed, angling his head and seeking out her tongue with his.

This wasn’t why he came here.  Not primarily, anyway.  He just hated the way he’d left things, being an asshole because her stories made him--they made her Tasha, and that was bad, for a lot of reasons.  But when she broke away long enough to set the nutcracker carefully on the counter, fingers fussing with the hair and beard to sit just right, he knew he wasn’t leaving.  Another poor decision that would probably bite him in the ass later.

_Good luck, future me.  You’re gonna need it._


End file.
